Grandma's House

Just that name evoked a warm feeling of joyous anticipation in my heart as a kid. We knew at the end of the three to four hour road trip there would be plenty of laughter, good food, and stories to tell. Most of all there would be unmistakable love pouring out from their genuine hugs, listening ears, and the fuss they as grandparents made over us. The docile and faithful Springer Spaniel was there to greet us as well, waiting on the steps with her outstretched paw to "shake."

It was a wondrous place of discovery for me, my brothers, and cousins. It was a great country escape from the humdrum life in town. There were plenty of creeks to discover and trees to climb. Neighbors would let us fish and swim in their streams and pet their horses. If one set of cousins arrived before another, the first one would construct a scavenger hunt for the late arrivals. The prize? Usually it was a bucket of recently caught frogs or crawdads.

It wasn't until I grew up that I learned that "crick" is actually spelled "creek." It was my grandparents' accent that shielded me from the awful truth. You see, a creek was a clean, almost sterile flow of water (boring)! It wasn't teeming with life and wonder and even occasional danger like a crick was. Besides, Grandma told us that the crick was "dirty," a perfect place for boys! Alas, I later discovered that a "crick" is the same as a "creek." It just depends on who's saying it.

My grandparents taught us simple pleasures like bird watching out the kitchen window while having breakfast. Grandpa kept the feeder well stocked with suet and seed. They made grass cutting and apple picking and corn shucking fun. Pinochle, checkers, and other games with them were fun because it was more about enjoying each other than about competition and winning.

Summer picnics and Thanksgiving feasts were fantastic probably because Grandma grew up on a farm with eight siblings in  the early twentieth century. She knew how to cook and we loved her pies and other goodies. Grandpa passed his sweet tooth down at least two generations. They knew how to make diligent work appear easy. They worked hard to maintain their property and bless others. It's no wonder that Grandma worked at a greenhouse and Grandpa liked cutting grass when you saw the landscaping around their house. They also raised a vegetable garden and fruit trees every year, and Grandpa delivered for a snack company to help share his fondness of goodies.

In spite of the pleasant memories of Grandma's house, it would be unrealistic to say there were no hardships or sad memories. There was one bathroom for all eleven of us when we got together there, and we had to be gentle with the fragile plumbing and limited supply of cistern water. It was there we learned to be patient and considerate of one another. And it truly wasn't a hardship because they had indoor plumbing!

The finished basement sometimes leaked, and it frustrated Grandma if it happened while we were there during holidays after she had worked to decorate and prepare meals. It's where we feasted together and celebrated. We urged her not to let a bit of water spoil our time together.

The premature death of a loved one was an enormous blow to the family, though I was too young to fully grasp what had happened. It took a long time for God's grace, comfort, and healing that He sent to soak in. No doubt the unanswered why's and the blinding tears and pain were difficult to see through. The family tried to learn how to listen to and comfort one another, imperfect as we were. There were also more amazing blessings to follow.

The safe and secure Rockwellian world we knew eventually vanished as we grew up and our grandparents passed on. They kept their suffering from us while they were living. They didn't want us to make a fuss over their arthritis, shingles, diverticulitis, and other health issues. They also took emotional suffering somewhat in stride and didn't want to burden anyone, although an occasional tear leaked out or a fleeting look of sadness would wash across a face. Due to the strength of their generation, we probably don't know half the difficulties they dealt with in life.

The white aluminum siding has now given way to gray vinyl, the red brick chimney is covered in gray paint, and the colorful landscaping has been replaced by a plainer, more practical covering. The warm, loving place in the country is now surrounded by housing developments and encroaching suburbia. It is no longer occupied by a generation of trusting people who never knew a stranger. However, the bittersweet memories abide, and I'm honored to have been commissioned by my Mother to do this painting of the house where my grandparents lived and where love thrived.

Sure, she could have relied solely on old snapshots or even AI (if she were still living today) to illustrate the embodiment of these memories, but it just wouldn't be the same. I've painted at least a dozen of what I call "homesteads" for different people who wanted to preserve the memory of not just a building, but also of the place where they remember their roots and the love of family that makes them who they are. Some of the places aren't even standing anymore, but with these paintings, they have a visual reminder of where they came from and the place where memories were made. Why not consider commissioning a special painting like this today? Click here or on the picture at the top to learn more and get started.